A Weird Concept of Fun
by volley
Summary: A captive... a one-man rescue mission... Written for Malcolm Impossible Month
1. Chapter 1

Grateful thanks to my friend Gabi2305, who always supports my writing with her wonderful comments, and to Kathy Rose for a super-fast beta reading job, in absence of RoaringMice.

Set after Minefield, before Season 3

* * *

Malcolm crouched behind one of those russet rubbery things that passed for trees on this planet, and studied the situation. His mission was far from easy, but that, of course, only served to whet his – some would say _insane_ – appetite for adventure with a capital A. This was, after all, one of the reasons why he had enrolled in Starfleet.

A shiver travelled down his spine. It wasn't strictly fear; more like a sign that his well-trained machine was getting ready for action. Energy was reaching full power; muscles were deliciously tense, mind gratifyingly sharp. He never felt as alive, as vibrant as when he was about to test himself. Although he'd never boast of it, he went rather proud of his peak condition, the fruit of constant work in the gym and firing range. It made him feel on top of things, and that's where he liked to be, especially in difficult circumstances. Let the universe throw what it liked at him, he'd accept the challenge and prove his worth.

_Yes, Admiral Reed, you'll see yet_.

But the old man would never _want_ to see.

That last train of thought creased Malcolm's face in a grimace of displeasure. He should be able to forget about home and its problems, light years away from them. That shadow in his life was not going to disappear, not ever. Why, then, keep torturing himself? Right now his mind ought to be as unencumbered as possible. He forced it back on the task at hand.

The captive crew member was somewhere in the camp that stood less than a kilometre away from his current position. Fires glowed in a semicircle around the small village, a sharp reminder of T'Pol's warning about those night beasts. _The planet supports a diversified fauna, Lieutenant; most of it seems innocuous, but there is evidence of large bipeds not unlike some of the creatures Humans refer to as __dinosaurs__, and it appears they favour the night. _

Bloody hell, he should have brought Trip along. The engineer had always wanted to meet a T-Rex. Or was it a Stegosaurus? Well, be it carnivore or herbivore, a large creature was a large creature; he'd have to keep his eyes open. To minimise risks, he had transported down in daylight, but since the prisoner had been in no danger, he'd waited for the cover of darkness for his foray into the aliens' camp.

Malcolm refocused down the meadow that started at the edge of the trees where he was concealed and gently declined toward a ribbon of silver. He heaved a steadying breath. Fighting off this planet's version of dinosaur was something he hoped he could, with a bit of luck, avoid, but there was no way to circumvent the obstacle that stood between him and the camp: a wide stream that protected the site on the south, just as steep cliffs prevented any approach from the north. The river's water wasn't particularly turbulent, but it looked deep enough that he would have to swim. And that definitely subtracted from his enjoyment of this mission. His stomach muscles tightened at the idea of having to face his greatest fear, but he controlled the rising anxiety and strengthened his resolve. His captain was counting on him, and he would not fail.

Speaking of whom... He flicked open his communicator. "Reed to Enterprise."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," Archer's voice promptly replied.

Malcolm could picture the man sitting on the edge of the captain's seat, in the middle of the Bridge. He generally had a hard time convincing Archer that rescue missions were not meant for the person in command, for he wasn't the type of leader to stay behind, no matter what the danger; but this time Malcolm had put his foot down – or rather, had found the right arguments to make him see reason. The key word had been "non-interference," and – quite predictably – he had found a valid ally in their Vulcan second in command. T'Pol had pointed out that, while it was bad enough that one of the away party had been captured while studying these primitive people, the unfortunate incident would not have happened had Archer followed her recommendations, at which Malcolm had not been able to restrain a grave nod. Now they had to make sure no one else was spied, not even from afar. In other words, this was a one-man covert mission.

"I am about to move in, Sir. Darkness has fallen and the camp seems to be quiet."

"Understood."

Malcolm was wondering whether Archer's curt reply was due to his being royally pissed off at having been left behind or simply a measure of his tension, or a mixture of the two, when the Captain added warmly, "Be careful, Malcolm. I'd like you _both_ back in one piece."

"Both in one piece, Captain? That would be rather awkward."

Dry wit was his only weapon against Paternal Archer, a mode of the man that made him utterly uncomfortable; but his joke fell flat, and he added a dutiful, "I'll try my best, Sir. Reed out."

With a sigh, Malcolm replaced his communicator into his sleeve pocket. He had a father who felt ashamed of his phobia, and a father-figure who felt bad about it in a protective way, and frankly he didn't know which he hated the most. He was sure that Archer had been as concerned for the captive crew member _as_ for his aquaphobic would-be rescuer. He cursed under his breath. Whatever had made him reveal to the man – his captain! – his greatest secret? It had to have been Phlox's painkiller making him confused that time, because not even being on death's door, as he thought he had been, would have normally pushed him to share such an embarrassing confidence. But the damage was done, and now he had to live with the knowledge that his captain knew him better than he'd ever intended him to.

Well, time to get a move on. It would be inappropriate to be too late and find that the captors in the meantime had decided to serve their captive for breakfast. From what they had observed of these people's diet during their rash, covert anthropological expedition, they were more than capable of it.

* * *

Captain Archer got up from his chair in the centre of the Bridge and, with a curt "I'll be in my ready room," made a fast escape.

After watching him disappear behind the door, Trip turned and his gaze locked with a pair of dark eyes across from him. T'Pol's expression was as neutral as usual – if you disregarded that small twitch in the corner of her mouth. _Who would've thought one day you'd be able to read a Vulcan_, Trip mused, and the thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

With a sigh, he got up from his station and headed for the ready room.

* * *

The stretch between him and the river was bare of tall vegetation and particularly exposed, being higher ground. Malcolm crawled on his belly, taking care to do it unhurriedly and to stop from time to time. On the other side of the river, there seemed to be no sentries guarding the camp's perimeter, but the sky was clear and the moon bathed the place in a pale light that might just be bright enough to reveal an approaching form to the trained eye. Better to be safe than sorry.

As he paused one last time, he looked up, searching the starry vault for a drifting dot of silver. To his dismay, he could not find it. He was used to the loneliness that came from lack of close bonds; now, though, to his surprise, he felt a sense of abandonment, of being cut off from... his_ friends_? Almost without knowing, he had become quite attached to the crew he served with; probably more than a security officer ought to – for his and their own good. Emotional involvement was detrimental to clearness of thought, which was of vital importance in his profession. But that small bubble of air in the middle of the universe was proving to be a truer home to him than any he'd ever had on Earth.

The river banks were flat and sandy; a coarse, dark grey grit stuck unpleasantly to Malcolm's palms and uniform. Wincing, he snaked on, among sets of tracks left by those biped predators, which obviously came to water at this stream. Not a particularly welcome notion. He hoped at least that the river itself held no dangerous species. T'Pol had assured him that it didn't, but his natural distrust for the liquid element made him prone to imagine all kinds of monsters swimming in it. One reason more to make it quickly to the other side.

Well, then.

Clenching his jaw, Malcolm edged on and immersed one hand, and then the other. He dared not rise from his prone position for fear of being spotted, so he entered the river chest first, like a crocodile silently going after its prey. The temperature was uncomfortably cold, like that of any flowing water. He felt it soak his clothes, reaching with its icy tendrils all over his body even before he was completely submerged, and he could not repress a shiver of distaste that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

The riverbed dropped gradually, for which he was grateful. He kept in contact with it as far as he could; then, without warning, he was waterborne: the current lifted and carried him away like a determined parent a recalcitrant child. To keep the panic at bay, he concentrated on his breathing, remembering the instructions that a number of doctors over the years had drilled in him. _In and out, in and out, and keep your muscles from tensing or you'll turn into something with the floatability of a stone_.

His problemwith water had come at an age when he had already learnt how to swim. Thank God for that, or Starfleet would have remained an impossible dream. He was no champion, but had the right movements well-mastered and could actually swim with some grace when he managed to control that damning anxiety that threatened to constrict his chest. Free style would undoubtedly get him to the far bank in the shortest time, but a breast stroke was a lot quieter and more unobtrusive – not to mention that it felt safer – so he opted for that.

The river moved like a gigantic conveyor belt, flat and steady, and the current was stronger than he had anticipated. It always amazed him – in an unsettling way – to experience the strength water could have. A single drop was inoffensive, yet any large body of water could be invincible. That was part of his grudge with the element: he didn't like invincible foes.

_Wrong thought_. In one alarming moment, his tentative balance was lost, and he was at the river's mercy. He became rigid, which made him start to sink, which made him flounder like an idiot. Cursing, he forced himself to override his instinct and do what surely must be absolute madness: abandon himself to the current. It worked, of course, and he let himself be carried, gradually regaining control of himself.

When he felt confident enough, he resumed doing something active to reach the far bank. His moment of panic had made him waste time, though, and he saw that his calculations for an easy landing had been thrown off by quite a stretch. He would no longer touch ground on the sandy banks near which the camp was situated, but would have to tackle the rocks that bordered the river farther ahead.

The bloody things were slippery. He slid and glided like an inexperienced skater, falling back in the water a couple of times. Hopefully he was far enough that his splashing would not be heard. The good news was that over time the boulders had been rounded off, which meant that he earned himself only a series of painful bruises, instead of open wounds.

Laboriously, he finally managed to pull himself onto firm ground, where he rolled limply on his back and tried to convince himself that his ragged breathing was due to the strenuous swim, and his phobia had nothing to do with it. He lay there for a good few moments, feeling light-headed from the relief despite the fact that the most dangerous part of the rescue was yet to come. It was the shame of it, in the end, that jerked him out of his immobility.

Malcolm pushed up to a sitting position, silently cursing against the feeling of inadequacy that always gripped him when he felt the sting of fear. Ironic, how he could escape his father by travelling the universe but it would never make the slightest bit of difference because he couldn't run away from an even more severe judge: his own conscience. He could force himself to do his duty and make it across a river or an ocean, but _how_ he managed that – with panic choking his throat – would inevitably mortify him, and in the silence of his own thoughts he'd never hide his weakness from himself.

Fortunately, his disciplined self was there to take charge again. Clearing his mind of those damning thoughts, Malcolm started in a low crouch back up along the river bank, toward the aliens' camp. Adrenaline was coursing through his system now, making his senses sharp. He was aware of a pungent smell of rotten leaves, which he associated with the presence of water, and his sight was so clear that no movement could possibly escape him. He was a different person. He felt great.

Before leaving Enterprise, he had taken time to change into camouflage pants and T-shirt, and cover his face and hands with dark grease to minimise the chance of detection, and as he moved in closer, nimble and silent as a panther, he wondered whether the captive crew member would be startled by his strange appearance and inadvertently reveal him with a frightened reaction. But no – he felt sure he could make himself known before that happened.

Suddenly, the silence was split by a loud howl that made him drop flat on the ground, heart thumping loudly against his ribcage. His mind raced. Had that been the prisoner? Could they be-

Before he could finish the alarming thought, drums started beating a tribal rhythm, and more yowls rose through the night. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, but the camp was still quite a way off, and all he could make out were some lights – torches – moving in symmetrical patterns, as if a dance were under way.

He didn't like that. Not one bit. The only positive aspect was that all the attention would be on the proceedings – whatever they might be – which meant that he could possibly be a little less cautious in his final approach.

Malcolm pushed back up and hurried on.

* * *

"Capt'n, everything'll turn out okay," Trip said. "You know you can trust Malcolm."

He went to sit on the edge of the armchair, eyes never leaving his friend. They both knew that things might not be as certain as his optimistic reassurances declared, but what else could he say?

Archer bit his lower lip. "I should have listened to T'Pol," he admitted with a grimace. "But how could I imagine he'd disobey orders?"

Trip let a smile mellow his blue eyes. "Don't forget, he's young and not used to away missions."

"If something happens to him, _or_ to Malcolm…"

Archer's gaze was a dark, green pool. Trip blinked. A captain shouldn't show his feelings like that. But, after all, this wasn't Captain Archer. This was his friend Jon.

"They'll be back safe and sound," Trip insisted, and he realised as he was saying it that deep down he really believed it. Malcolm _would_ find a way.

"Yeah," was the much less confident reply.

* * *

In the launch bay, T'Pol had looked at the member of the away party who would later be captured, raised her eyebrows, and pointed out with her usual and infallible logic, "Captain, I do not believe this mission requires his presence."

"You don't think he'll be useful?" Archer had countered good-humouredly. Then, with his equally infallible stubbornness, he had added, "Noted." And he'd gone on to order said crew member into the shuttlepod.

Malcolm watched from behind a palisade the prisoner being carried, inside a cage, to the thick of some rather frenzied dancing. Oh yes, it was a relief that he had managed to leave the Captain on Enterprise. Having a guilt-ridden Archer beside him would be awfully distracting right now, when it looked like he would need all his wits to pull this off. And it was better the man didn't see this scene, or he'd have nightmares for a month. The poor caged devil, whimpering and cowering in a corner of his constricted space, was obviously terrified. Well, who could blame him? In the central square, a large open space where the tribal dance was taking place and around which the entire village seemed to have gathered, a fire had been built. Whether these primitive people were planning to roast their strange-looking prisoner and serve him for breakfast, or slaughter him as an offering to their gods – no doubt in the belief that so different a creature must necessarily be evil – the end they had in store for him wasn't a particularly merciful one.

Although Hoshi had not been able to determine what this planet's natives called themselves, as soon as Malcolm had set eyes on them a name had sprung automatically to mind: Blockheads – no disrespect intended. The fact was that their most unique feature was the shape of their heads, which was oddly cubical. Amazingly cubical, in fact. For the rest, they were short – _shorter_ – and stout, with barrel chests and the cranial ridges that numerous humanoid species seemed to almost unfailingly have. Their olive complexion in the light of the torches had an odd shine to it, rather like the skin of a wet snake, and their eyes were deeply set, three dark sockets that from afar were disconcertingly unfathomable.

Three sockets, three eyes: two in front and one in the back, just to make things easier for him. At least while they'd been studying them from afar they had observed that front and back vision were not simultaneous – it would be a bit too confusing. But it was of little comfort to Malcolm. The fact remained that in the blink of an eye – no pun intended – the Blockheads could switch from one to the other. Ancient Earth mythology had three-headed monsters, one-eyed cyclops, and all kinds of oddities, but these blokes had to beat them all as far as ugly looks.

Their garments consisted of animal hides and pelts. Malcolm briefly wondered if any of those furs belonged to the large biped predators T'Pol had warned him against. After all, she had only said "_not unlike_ some of the creatures Humans refer to as dinosaurs," probably referring only to their size. The next thought that crossed his mind was that the body temperature of these people must be quite high, for the planet wasn't at all cold by human standards, certainly not cold enough to wear fur.

The spirited dancers sported brightly coloured ornamental head gear and ankle rings. Sparing them a last glance, Malcolm turned his attention to the spears in the hands of a small group waiting – these perfectly immobile – by the fire. They looked a distinguished company, compared to the others. Their rulers? Their religious leaders? Or simply the executioners? Their spears were primitive but Malcolm wasn't a fool; a weapon was always as good as the hand that wielded it, and he knew that even the most unsophisticated one could be deadly dangerous.

The drummers now increased their deafening rhythm; the spectators began to utter strange growls of excitement; then, as if cued by an invisible conductor, all fell silent. In the eerie sudden absence of noise, the sound of the river rushing by slowly emerged through Malcolm's consciousness, but louder than that was the thumping of his heart. The captive looked forlornly out between the bars and gave another whimper as the cage was placed on the ground in front of the armed group.

To die passed through by a spear rather than roasted alive might be a slight improvement, but the end result would be the same. Malcolm realised that if he was to save the prisoner he had not one moment to lose. All his carefully prepared plans, all the tactics and strategies, were going to have to be put aside. _No interference _would also have to go down the drain. He was one against the lot of them, and the hell if he would go to any length to make himself invisible, or refrain from using the stun setting of his phase pistol, the only weapon at his disposal, in order not to interfere. Okay, he also had the element of surprise, but that would be quickly spent.

Malcolm took in several deep breaths, building up the foolhardiness necessary for the task at hand. He watched as one of the dancers opened the cage and another made to grab the prisoner. An angry growl escaped the poor guy's throat, and he turned against the man. He bit the hand that reached for him – what else could he do? – and, taking advantage of the brief moment of confusion that ensued, propelled himself out of his confinement. All the spears lifted in unison.

Bloody hell.

Malcolm raised his own weapon and fired a rapid volley.

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to my readers and reviewers!

§2§

T'Pol pushed the button to make her viewer return into its slot; it was too dark on the planet to see anything in good-enough detail. She swivelled her chair to face her station. Her instruments, however, should pick up the Lieutenant's biosigns. They would not tell her much, beside the fact that he was still alive, but it was relevant information. She pressed a few buttons on her console.

"I've lost them temporarily while he swam across the river," a voice behind her said. "But I can see them again now."

T'Pol turned to the communications station to acknowledge Hoshi's words, and they looked at each other for a moment. There was an odd relationship between them, always walking a fine line, even though they had put a few misunderstandings behind them.

Of course the Linguist would have followed Lieutenant Reed's progress; she seemed quite fond of him. T'Pol raised her eyebrows. "The water would have interfered with our instruments. Where is he now?"

"Just outside the camp." Hoshi blinked. "But I'm reading quite a few alien biosigns too."

"There would be, in an alien camp." It was incredible how emotions could often impede the simplest logical processes in the human brain.

"I mean all in one spot," Hoshi added in a tone that renewed that frisson between them.

T'Pol's eyebrows rose higher.

* * *

Distinguished Armed Blockhead number one fell. DAB number two fell. DAB number three fell. Numbers four, five and six dove to safety. All without so much as a cry.

_A cry? _

Malcolm tilted his head back, inflated his lungs, and let a blood-curdling war cry tear out of his throat. He was beginning to feel the mad exhilaration that he experienced when facing danger. This was a "do or die" sort of situation, and the bellow made a clean sweep of any logical restraint that might have curbed his daring. Standing up, he left his cover and dashed forward, breaking into the square through the scattering spectators.

A collective murmur floated up from the aliens. As Malcolm sprinted across, they retreated a few steps, moving of one accord like rings in a pond from a stone's point of impact. Well, he must be a real sight, even without the added enhancement provided by the light of the torches and the dancing shadows they produced.

Malcolm's eyes scoured the square. Damn, but the fleeing prisoner was already out of sight, having taken off in the opposite direction and somehow making it through the bordering crowd, undoubtedly aided by the general confusion created by Malcolm's own entrance. There was nothing left to do but to go after him, even though it meant that he too would have, once again, to break through the ring of people.

He had just skimmed past the crackling fire when some of the Blockheads roused themselves from their shocked stupor. To them he was but a mad, strange creature – and one that had interrupted their rite. He seriously doubted they were going to be disposed to capture him alive. Indeed, projectiles started to crisscross the air. They were mostly stones, and Malcolm ducked, covering his head as best as he could with his left arm, while his right one was busy aiming his weapon, which he fired repeatedly to open a breach for himself up ahead.

He had stunned five or six people when a spear drove itself into the ground inches from him. Malcolm spun and a moment later DAB number four had dropped to the ground. Number five tripped over his unconscious comrade, losing hold of his spear. Number six threw his, forcing Malcolm to dive to avoid being impaled. He did so just in time, absorbing the impact with a roll that made him land back on his feet. He spun around and stunned the last two weaponless warriors – better to put them out of play for a while, for they seemed dangerous types. Without delay, Malcolm took off again.

The melee was deafening. There were screams of anger and screams of fright, and Malcolm almost added his own screaming to the din, and not because of the stones that were colliding with him, for although he could feel the impacts, pain didn't register _yet_ – and wasn't adrenaline good for that! It was rather an instinctive reaction, an I-can-do-it-too sort of thing. But maybe it was better to save his energy for more important things. Luckily, the aliens were keeping their distance; and of course the credit had to go to his phase pistol and its – to all appearances – deadly beam, which was doing its job unerringly. Interference be damned! It was definitely useful to have the technological edge.

Malcolm vaulted lightly over a stack of logs. He should waste no time, for there was no telling when his luck might turn and more Blockheads armed with slightly better weapons than stones make an appearance.

Just then, the escaped captive dashed back into the arena. He seemed totally confused, and in his mad rush and the general havoc he was going to pass Malcolm by without even knowing him.

"Here, Porthos!" Malcolm shouted. That got the dog's full attention. The little guy could not speak English, but communication with him didn't seem to be a problem. "Come," Malcolm ordered, and seeing him promptly obey, veered toward the river with the beagle at his heels.

A few well placed shots made a courageous group that would bar their exit from the square retreat and then split. Malcolm dashed toward the opening that had formed, the panting behind him telling him his protégé was keeping up. Once out of the square, he felt the worst would be over. _Almost made it_, his mind exulted, a bit too soon. The moment they made to go through, his pistol now lowered, out of the blue came a band of – oh, dear, _women_? – armed with sticks and fronds, who closed on them again. Being the first and larger of the two, Malcolm took the brunt of their lashing and hitting. Both arms over his head now, he gritted his teeth and kept running.

And then they were clear.

Having left the square with its fire and torches behind, it was suddenly dark. For a moment Malcolm was blinded, but he didn't venture to slow down, more prepared to risk a fall than to give up their advantage. They sprinted through the village's outskirts, frightened figures materialising on the threshold of huts, many of them clutching children to their stocky bodies. Malcolm could spare no breath for giving orders, but none were necessary, for Porthos stuck to him like glue, looking like he was having fun, now. _Welcome to the mad club of danger lovers_.

Malcolm had no intention of swimming back across the river, especially now that he was no longer alone. Indeed, if he could at all avoid it, he had no intention to cross back to the other side, period. He hoped to try to get a lift by transporter, but to do so he had to find some cover, where their transport would not be witnessed. He had already _interfered_ enough with these aliens without having them see people disappear into thin air.

_Before any rescue mission, carefully study the area._ That's what the book instructed, and while he had waited for darkness he had done his homework. Near that sandy stretch of bank where he had originally planned to land was a grove of tall trees, which stretched north of the village. He had also noticed that on the beach there had been some kind of boats. Good for Plan B.

Tall shadows now loomed ahead. His sight had adjusted to the dimness, and they reached the first line of trees without problems. Once they were inside the grove, he stopped.

"Down," he ordered. "Stay close." And his charge obeyed. He was quite disciplined, Malcolm had to admit. Perhaps he had learnt his lesson, for it was because of Porthos's disobedience in the first place that they were in this muddle.

Malcolm reached for his communicator and flicked it open. "Reed to Enterprise," he panted, in debit of oxygen. No comforting voice came out of it this time, only a few drops of water when he shook the device. Bloody hell, didn't they make these things waterproof?

Plan B it was, then.

* * *

"I only wanted him to run around a bit on some real grass," Archer said hoarsely. "Maybe water a local tree, nothing more than that."

He had taken to pacing the small room, ducking under the upper bulkhead supports with inveterate precision. Trip followed him with his eyes, happy to act as a sounding board.

"After all, we were going to keep far away... a long way away... And I was going to keep him close..."

The concept was getting a bit confused. Archer must have realised it, because he stopped and turned, pinching the base of his nose. "You know what I mean."

"He picked up a scent, Capt'n," Trip reminded him. "Ya can't blame the little fella. He's a hunting dog after all, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but he'd never run off like that without giving a damn about my orders!"

Trip smiled. "Guess you'll have to demote him," he joked, and watched Archer's face reshape into an "it's not funny" expression. "Sorry," Trip muttered.

"Captain," T'Pol's unemotional voice said through the intercom.

Archer took a long step to his desk. "Go ahead."

"The Lieutenant seems to have broken his cover."

"T'Pol, can you be a bit more specific than that?" Archer asked in frustration. "What do you mean?"

"He appears to be surrounded by aliens."

"Is Porthos with him? Can we transport them back?" Archer enquired tautly.

"I believe I have identified your canine's biosigns, but he and Lieutenant Reed are very likely in full view of the aliens."

"Are they in any danger?" Archer cut her off abruptly.

"I am afraid I cannot tell by looking at their biosigns, Captain."

* * *

Jogging back to the edge of the grove, Malcolm fingered the setting on his phase pistol to maximum yield. A few deep breaths, and he took up position, legs apart, shoulders squared, phase pistol at the ready. His determined stance was effective; as soon as the stubborn group that was still on their tracks caught sight of him, they slowed down and stopped. The torches the aliens carried, flickering in the light night breeze, set them as distorted creatures, giving Malcolm but glimpses of their disquieting cubical faces and deep-set eyes. He could not read their expressions – not that he would know how to, even – but their body language was clear, and shouted _caution_. Silence fell like an emergency bulkhead.

Malcolm's lungs and muscles were burning. No doubt very soon he'd feel each and every scratch and bruise, but right now all that was blocked out by the feeling of blood rushing vigorously through his veins. He felt on top of the world, not because he was dominating his enemies, mind you, but because he was dominating himself, and at moments like this that fragile effigy that his father liked to paint of him no longer existed.

"Stand back!" Malcolm shouted authoritatively, extending an eloquent arm forward, palm open.

He turned and pointed his phase pistol at the base of a large tree. The powerful beam cut through it like butter. Another awed exclamation floated up from the aliens. The tall giant tilted slowly, as if it didn't want to come down; but then, with a loud rustling noise and a thunderous thump, it fell to the ground, cutting off the pursued, who had retreated to a safe distance, from their chasers.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all! It's been fun to read that some of you hadn't anticipated the captive would be Porthos! Here is the last chapter.

§3§

That fateful day, when he had told Archer about his aquaphobia, Malcolm had boasted that he had been able to handle a boat before he'd known how to ride a bicycle. Unfortunately, this was no boat. Nothing more than a small, primitive raft, it gave him very little feeling of security.

On his knees and leaning as far out as he dared, Malcolm struggled with the short paddle to keep them on course, while the rushing waters carried them effortlessly downstream. "Down," he had ordered as soon as he had pushed the raft off the shore, and without a sound Porthos had obeyed and not moved since. Malcolm spared him a quick look. In the darkness, he was but a form lying low in the middle of the platform. He could sense his fear. Well, he had no reassuring words to offer, at the moment.

The bump came unexpectedly. Whatever it was that they had hit, the raft spun so abruptly that Malcolm nearly fell off. There was a muffled sound from his companion, but Malcolm was too busy to heed it. All of his focus was in trying to regain control of their vessel, for things were happening fast. Too fast, for his liking. That shadow up ahead, for example. It was coming toward them too bloody…

Damn!

With another ominous thud, they collided with a large rock that the unfair hand of fate had probably placed there just to shipwreck aquaphobic security officers on rescue missions, and capsized.

From one moment to the next, all sounds were cut off as Malcolm plunged underwater. Caught by an eddy, he was tossed about and no longer knew top from bottom, or right from left. All was darkness and turmoil. _This is it_, he thought with more clarity and detachment than he'd imagined, _the shameful demise of Malcolm Reed, Starfleet officer with a flaw._

But then, by some miracle, he broke through the surface again, and that first, much yearned-for breath of air was enough to turn his resignation into fight.

He flung his arms and legs rather frantically and collided with something soft: Porthos. His closeness gave him comfort. Gradually, he managed to make more deliberate movements and find some kind of rhythm, and soon fell into a spasmodic breaststroke. His comrade, nearby, was cutting through the water with slow but self-assured progress, turning once in a while as if to check on him. It helped Malcolm get his anxiety more under control. He was here to _rescue_ the blasted dog, and it looked as if Porthos was rescuing him. Bloody hell, he still had his pride. They couldn't fail now. Yes, they were going to make it. Firm ground was not very far away.

Malcolm kept going, his mind forcefully focused ahead of him, on the moment he'd feel something solid under his feet. The beagle was faster, and now was already clawing his way out of the water. Malcolm realised that if he himself didn't push on the gas a bit they might lose each other, for the current would quickly carry him farther downstream. He really didn't like that prospect; so he dug deep and found the courage to abandon the relative safety of his breaststroke and change position for a final burst in freestyle.

Grabbing tufts of the tall grass that bordered the river in that stretch, Malcolm clawed his own way back onto dry land, where once again he lay spent, a space-faring Robinson Crusoe. He could hear panting not far from him, and after a moment he raised his head.

"Good to know I'm not the only one out of breath," he said faintly. His partner in crime was trembling. "You cold?"

The answer was a sound in-between a roar and the screeching of a badly oiled mechanism.

Malcolm blinked. What was that ridiculous ancient film Trip had scheduled not two weeks before for Movie Night? Malcolm had spent more time looking at his duty roster than at the screen, but he remembered a scene with water in a glass trembling with each heavy footstep of an approaching T-Rex.

Lovely.

Putting a restraining hand on his small friend's shoulders, Malcolm scrambled to a crouch and peered through the moon-lit darkness. He was further downstream from the spot he'd been earlier in the day, where there had been an open meadow slanting down to the river. Here, the terrain was more irregular, with bushes and tall grasses. Thank God for that, and for being upwind, for ominous shadows could be seen in the distance, approaching the river. They weren't particularly fast, but Malcolm could find little comfort in that notion. They looked massive, standing at least two and a half meters tall and weighing… well, he didn't really want to know.

Cursing under his breath, he reached for his communicator. "Come in, Enterprise!" he said into it urgently. But a second bath apparently had done nothing toward fixing the thing.

"Come on," he whispered, and led the way into the weeds, keeping low.

* * *

"Anything yet?" Captain Archer asked.

He had returned to the Bridge and his eyes were disconcertingly worried. T'Pol had to strengthen her mental barriers not to be affected.

"Capt'n, give Malcolm a chance," Trip said in an evident attempt to soothe the man's tension. "He'll call us as soon as he can be transported out, I'm sure."

Commander Tucker' emotions, though different from the Captain's, were just as strong.

T'Pol took in a silent deep breath. She was caught between two worlds, and she was entirely responsible for it. She didn't even regret it, in truth. Commander Tucker was… She gave herself a mental slap to derail her train of thought. No, she did not regret having stayed on the Enterprise, with all its consequences. But her Vulcan nature was gradually weakening, and in moments like this felt truly threatened by the pummelling of emotions.

To centre herself again, she concentrated on her instruments. She should be able to pinpoint Lieutenant Reed's and Porthos's biosigns again. She had lost them, which meant that he and the canine had been in the water, but they ought to have reached the other side by now.

Then she spotted them.

* * *

A powerful snort nearly dried Malcolm's wet hair. So much for _upwind _and _hiding_.

"Run!" he ordered, and let himself fall on his back.

At least his faithful phase pistol never faltered. The beam hit the giant between its eyes. The monster tottered, but no more than someone given a light push on the chest. _That's all? _Malcolm silently screamed. Maybe he should set his pistol to kill. He rolled away from the huge paw that was going to sweep him aside like a crumb from a tablecloth, and jumped to his feet.

"Come on, Porthos!" he urged the beagle, who, to his credit, had had the guts to disobey his order and had stood his ground barking furiously, ridiculous as that looked.

Once again they took off at a run. This Adventure had a capital A that was rather too large. Bloody hell, _twice_ he had faced his greatest fear, not to mention death by an entire village of angry aliens. But _dinosaurs_? Okay, not really dinosaurs, he reminded himself as his heart reached the top floor in his chest. But close enough.

The sounds those creatures made were a lot more disagreeable than the Blockheads' din. The screeches were seriously grating on his already frayed nerves. Malcolm grimaced, wanting to cover his ears. His finger brushed the setting on his pistol. If stun had done virtually nothing, maybe... At the last moment, though, he held it back. He hadn't come into space to hurt innocent life forms, however large and bent on hurting _him_. It went against his principles and his orders.

Something hit him in the back and he found himself flying.

_Good-bye, Admiral Reed. Seems you were right, after all…_

__

_

* * *

_

Trip worked the levers of the transporter console, eyes flicking back and forth between them and the molecules that glimmered and faded, glimmered and faded, and didn't seem to want to solidify; then, slowly, they coalesced into familiar forms. As he blew out the breath he'd been holding, Archer burst onto the scene, followed by a much more composed T'Pol. The Captain had obviously found it impossible to wait on the Bridge, and had joined him at the transporter pad.

For a moment they all contemplated in silence the scene before their eyes: Porthos sat on the pad with his tongue dangling out, looking slightly puzzled; Malcolm had rematerialised in a weird, unbalanced position, not lying, not standing. Indeed, he fell on his rump, and looked down at himself, seemingly surprised to be in one piece. Then his eyes shifted to his surroundings, including Trip and Archer. Not without effort, he scrambled to his feet and stood more or less at attention.

"Lieu-" Archer began. A bark interrupted him.

Porthos jumped off the transporter platform and ran to his master, who put a firm lid on his pet's enthusiasm with a snappy command to sit that didn't promise well. The beagle obeyed with a whimper, but his tail kept tapping the deck plating quite vigorously in a display of canine happiness.

Having received a few dressing-downs himself, Trip spared the poor thing a sympathetic glance before returning his eyes to Malcolm. The man was wet and dishevelled, his clothes were torn and dirty, and the dark grease that covered his face and arms did nothing toward giving him a reassuring look. He also looked sore all over, but in front of his superiors had opted for the formal military stance.

"Lieutenant, are you all right?" Archer enquired, this time without interruptions. "At ease," he added in slight irritation.

Malcolm relaxed fractionally. "Yes, Sir, more or less, Sir," he stuttered.

Archer pulled his mouth into a lopsided smirk. "Well, you don't look it." He turned to Trip. "Take him to Sickbay. I'll be there shortly."

Trip nodded, and watched Archer leave, followed by his quadruped friend, very likely toward his quarters.

There was a clearing of the throat.

"Whom do I have to thank for my... timely removal?" Malcolm enquired.

Trip rushed to balance him as the man tentatively tackled the few steps that elevated the transporter pad above the floor.

Arms latched behind her back, T'Pol shifted on her feet. "As it is generally the case, Commander Tucker worked the transporter," she said.

"That's not what I meant," Malcolm groaned, a hand on his lower back.

"T'Pol noticed your biosigns were dangerously close to other, rather worrisome ones," Trip put in. "The rest goes without saying."

Malcolm blew out a slow breath. "Believe me, not a moment too soon." His face suddenly showed all of his tiredness. "Thank you both, then."

"Lieutenant," T'Pol asked, "Before then, Ensign Sato and I noticed your biosigns were close to those of several aliens. Did you… interfere with them?"

The small pause had been accompanied by a characteristic lift of the eyebrows and tilt of the head. Trip watched Malcolm swallow.

"Ah – just the tiniest bit, Subcommander."

"Come on," Trip said, leading the uncomfortable man along the corridor before T'Pol could ask what, exactly, Malcolm meant by the tiniest bit. "So, how were those dinosaurs?"

* * *

Archer had brought Porthos to his quarters where, away from prying eyes, he had finally allowed himself to check the dog thoroughly for any injuries. Then he had given the beagle a good scolding, which had predictably ended in a reconciliation that had involved a lot of petting and licking. But Archer's heart had still been encumbered, and he had left his quarters soon after entering them, headed for Sickbay.

Now, as he approached Phlox's domain, Archer found himself slowing down. Malcolm might have put up a good front, but had looked rather battered. What had happened was entirely his own fault, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing the consequences of his rash decision written out in capital letters on the Lieutenant's body. Nonetheless, it was his precise duty. He watched the Sickbay doors appear as he rounded the last bend, and inhaled deeply.

Sickbay was quiet. Malcolm was sitting – slumping, really – on a bio-bed, with Trip at the foot of it and Phlox near him. The doctor was reading something on his hand scanner. All three turned at the doors opening.

"Ah, Captain," Phlox said in acknowledgment, as Malcolm made an effort to sit straighter.

Archer nodded. "How's your patient?" he asked.

"Nothing more than bruises and scratches," Phlox replied chirpily.

Lots of bruises and scratches, Archer could see. Reed was bare-chested and bare-footed, and had changed out of his wet trousers into a pair of sweat pants Phlox must have provided. Archer knew he couldn't keep his feelings from his voice and eyes, but he didn't mind; he'd never been one to hide things, especially feelings. If they saw his worry, or even his guilt and regret, so be it. He was Human.

Phlox added, "I'll make a special salve. Good thing I kept the droppings of my Risan dragonhead lizards."

Archer watched the doctor move away in that bouncing step of his. Was it possible Phlox enjoyed himself, saying things like that? He chased the disturbing thought away and refocused on Malcolm, who was wincing – and definitely not because of his bruises.

"Permission to escape from Sickbay, Sir?" the man said, deadpan.

Archer felt a genuine chuckle bubble up, and let it out. It released that last knot of worry. When he turned serious again, things looked different from just a few minutes before.

"Sorry, Malcolm," he said.

"I was joking, Captain," Malcolm quickly put in. His eyebrows shot up. "I just hope the salve won't reek."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Trip said with a chuckle.

Archer's brow furrowed. "I meant I'm sorry about what you had to go through to bring Porthos back." He knew the Lieutenant didn't like to hear his captain apologise to him, but some things needed to be said. "The river, those aliens, those creatures, and all because-"

"Captain..." Malcolm uncharacteristically cut him off. He shifted self-consciously on the bio-bed. "This really isn't necessary," he said. "Rescue missions are part of my duties on board this ship."

Archer felt like pointing out that rescuing the captain's pet wasn't exactly written in his job description, but was certain Malcolm would find a way to confute even that.

"Porthos will have no cheese for a week," he said instead.

Trip's blue eyes smiled. "Beggin' your pardon, Capt'n, but you're the one who should get no cheese for a week. The poor little fella just followed his instincts."

Malcolm's mouth gaped at Trip's laid-back reprimand, making Archer smile. He knew the comment was nothing but a good-natured poke. "Yeah," he easily agreed. "It won't happen again."

Closing his jaw, Malcolm blurted out, "It was no problem, Sir. In fact..." He jerked his head sideways. "It was kind of fun."

"Ya got a weird concept of fun," Trip commented.

"There are worse ways to spend a day," Malcolm pointed out.

"Here you are, Mister Reed," Phlox said, coming back with a small bowl containing a dark green paste. "This will work miracles on your bruises. Twenty-four hours, and you'll be like new."

A faint smell of rotten potatoes encircled the Denobulan. Archer took a step back. Trip took two.

Malcolm sighed. "Much worse ways to spend a day."

THE END

And for those of you who are wondering... this was no entry for Drown Malcolm Month. That month definitely deserves a story of its own!

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